


The One You Win

by TheUniverseWillSing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adoption, Homelessness, Kid Fic, M/M, Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:11:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseWillSing/pseuds/TheUniverseWillSing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a homeless child follows Sherlock home one day, and he isn't as heartless as one might think. <i>This has been edited; the phrase CPS has been removed and replaced with Social Services, because I realized it was an Americanism too late. Sorry for any confusion.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme: "A homeless child of seven or eight follows Sherlock home one day." can be found in its original state here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=61883280#t61883280

It wasn't because the child was thin. No matter what anyone else might have thought, it was not because the child was thin.

The elderly couple whose son had gone missing ten years ago had been more than grateful for Sherlock's services, even if the search had ended with the discovery of the son's remains, and it had been interesting enough that he'd declined payment for the case. Mrs. Finnegan, however, had pressed a box of chocolate candies on him in an effort to express her mournful thanks when they had no money. Sherlock had figured that Mrs. Hudson at least would like them.

Then there had been the child, an obviously homeless girl of seven years, and it had not been because she was thin. Nor was it because she had curly black hair, blue eyes, a dirty plaster on her knee, or because she was wearing a baggy t-shirt with the periodic symbols of Ba, Co, and N  and the words "I love chemistry," on the front. 

Mrs. Hudson would probably make a fuss if he gave her the chocolates, he considered, and handed the box to the child before moving along on his way home. The girl stared at him as he passed with wide eyes that protruded from her thin face, clutching the box to her thin chest with her thin arms. But it hadn't been because she was thin.

Sherlock was almost unsurprised when the girl started following him - she was homeless and seven and likely to attach to any adult figure to show even the most incidental kindness - but he didn't acknowledge her presence. Even opening the door to 221B he didn't look back, tramping up the stairs without closing it and hardly listening to it _snick_ ing shut behind the girl. He lingered in the foyer of the flat, making a significant point of toeing off his damp shoes; in the corner of his eye he saw the girl kneel down and carefully untie her fraying pink trainers.

Slowly and with deliberation he untied his scarf and removed his coat, taking enough time for the girl to finish with her laces and tuck her shoes in beside his, before walking into the kitchen. Still, he took no notice of her presence as she shuffled in after him, continuing to clutch the box of chocolates for a moment before gingerly setting it on the counter. He opened the fridge, pulled out the milk, turned, and feigned surprise. Not under his Normal guise, children were irritatingly good at seeing through that, but a more natural arrangement of his features.

"Oh," he said conversationally, "I didn't hear you come in at all."

The girl smiled, obviously pleased with her own prowess, and flushed pink around her slightly-protuberant ears.

Sherlock leaned down so he was eye-to-eye with her. "You must be my new assistant; I was very impressed by your resume, though I can't quite recall your name."

As he looked at the J-shaped pendant round her neck the girl blushed further and shifted, looking as though she'd just been caught telling a lie.

As she opened her mouth Sherlock held up a hand. "Hold on, I think I remember it, just give me a moment...Jaime?" he ventured.

The girl shook her head.

"Jennifer?"

Another shake.

"Jackie?"

Wrong again.

"Mm...Josephine?"

That one got him a giggle.

"Joanna? Jemma? Jewel? Oh, please tell me it's not Jewel."

Now with fingers stuffed in her mouth to keep from giggling any more, she shook her head again.

Sherlock pouted his lips and rolled his eyes around as though in thought. "Alright, let's see...what about Jessica?" he asked.

The girl did a little jump in place and squeaked gleefully through her fingers, nodding.

He sighed in relief. "Good, I was beginning to worry it would be something stupid, like Geronimo," he said before straightening up to put the milk on the table.

"That's a G."

"Sorry?" asked Sherlock over his shoulder, now reaching for a glass in the cupboard. He kicked out a chair and Jessica sat down.

"Geronimo," she explained in a small voice, "it has a G."

He sat across from her, crossing his arms. "So it does." Tilting his head slightly, Sherlock hesitated before holding out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

She shook his hand, kicking her legs idly. "Hello."

"It's a pleasure, I'm sure."

There was a tooth missing from her bottom row, toward the front. "Now, Jessica, if you're going to be my assistant - you are going to be my assistant, aren't you? Only, well, you would probably have to live here. I do experiments at all hours, being a Very Important Scientist and Detective."

Instantly Jessica nodded. "Okay. May I have a chocolate, Mister Holes?"

" _Holmes_ , and yes you may," nodded Sherlock. Jessica hopped down from her chair and retrieved the box from the counter, bringing it back to the table before removing a choclate. Sherlock could see the pleasure on her face when she popped the sweet into her mouth.

"Now, as I was saying," he continued, "if you're to be my assistant in this Extremely Delicate Experiment, you'll have to perform an easier one first, to prove yourself. Let me show you; come with me."

They stood from the table and he walked upstairs into the bathroom, pulling a bottle of bubble bath (old experiment) from under the sink. He offered it to Jessica and she took it bemusedly. "We must find out _exactly_ how much soap is required to produce approximately four inches of bubble foam on the surface of the bathwater. As a Very Important Scientist, you need to take water displacement into consideration, so you'll have to get in as well." He said it all with such a serious tone that the words 'in the name of Science' were probably implied.

Jessica looked at him as though he'd grown a second head. "With my clothes on?!" she asked incredulously.

"Of _course_ not! Do you think I’m insane?!" he replied instantly. "I have to sterilize them; can't do a science experiment with unsterile clothes! Now, you perform the experiment, leave your things in the hall, and I'll prepare your next task." He stopped just outside the door and turned back. "Oh, and all scientists ask for help when they need it, so make sure you call for me if anything comes up." 

With a wink and click of his teeth, Sherlock went back downstairs and put the milk in a saucepan and the saucepan on the stove. When he heard water running, he treaded quietly back up the stairs - skipping the fourth, it squeaked - and sat just out of sight of the cracked-open door, listening for signs of trouble while Jessica performed her experiment. She hummed to herself as she poked her dirty disheveled clothes out into the hall. Sherlock picked them up and, as an afterthought, knocked on the door. "Jessica?"

The humming stopped. "Uh-huh?"

"You need to test the density of the bubbles as well as the depth," he said through the door.

"What?"

He could hear the sloshing of water against the sides of the tub and took that to mean she was safely in the bath. "Can I come in, are you covered up?"

There was a pause, and then the strange sticky noise of bubbles being pushed around. "Uh-huh," she agreed. When Sherlock cautiously opened the door it was to see her sitting innocently in the middle of a veritable mountain of soap bubbles, completely covered from the neck down. The corner of his mouth felt curiously tight and stretched; there were bubbles on her left ear.

"The density," he elaborated, kneeling beside the tub. "You need to test it, like so:"

He scooped up a handful of bubbles at the edge of the tub, wiggled his fingers to let a few drip back into the tub, and then blew on the suds until they flew into the air around Jessica's head. She giggled delightedly and copied the action, blowing bubbles into Sherlock's hair. His mouth tightened mysteriously in the corners again. He set her clothes down behind him on the floor and picked up the bottle of shampoo. “Now, part of being a Very Important Scientist is having clean hair, so we’ll take care of that since you’re already in the tub doing this experiment, shall we?”

Jessica nodded so frantically that the water began sloshing about again.

“Good, now close your eyes; we’d hate to get this in them, eh? That’s another experiment altogether...”

Sherlock had never done anything like this before, caring for a child, but found the tightness in his mouth was directly correlated with doing something that made Jessica laugh, and that it was accompanied by a similar tightness in his chest. Recalling something his mother used to do when he was small, he wetted Jessica’s hair, lathered in the shampoo, and then twisted it in his hands until it looked like she had horns and found a hand-mirror to show her. “This is extremely important,” he said gravely, “you’d better remember this for later.”

She shouted with laughter, further confirming the correlation.

They performed her first experiment with gusto, blowing bubbles around the tiny bathroom until every surface was oily with soap and he’d shown her how making the thumb and forefinger into a ring could make individual bubbles as well. Then she insisted on trying the horn experiment on him, and he’d had to stick his head in the water, likely ruining his shirt. After that little fiasco he’d stuck a sponge in her hand and made her scrub everywhere he knew it wouldn’t be proper to if she ever were to mention the funny man who’d given her candy and a bath.

Sherlock pulled the drain and instructed her in how to rinse off with the removable shower head, told her where the towels were in the closet, and then took her clothes downstairs to the wash machine. He then went to his and John's bedroom and fetched a clean t-shirt and pair of shorts that John had found hilarious and bought (in the full knowledge that Sherlock would never wear them). "I'm leaving your official Very Important Scientist uniform out here in the hall, Jessica," he called through the door.

For the record, it hadn't been because she was filthy, either.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was waiting in the kitchen when Jessica ambled down the stairs, tightening the drawstring on the shorts. Even the shirt that had shrunk to squeeze Sherlock's frame hung loose on Jessica, even if it hadn't been because she was thin.

"Are you ready for your next experiment?" he asked from the stove, stirring the warming milk to keep it from developing that nasty pudding-skin that Sherlock hated so much.

Jessica leaped into he same chair as she had before, wet hair dripping onto the linoleum as she earnestly nodded her head. She was a very quiet girl - Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked that or not at the moment.

He nodded regardless. “Good. This -” He deftly poured the warm milk into two mugs and stirred cocoa powder into each of them. “- is your next assignment. How long will it take for this to be cool enough to drink? Sip carefully and tell me when you’re certain; I’m parched.” Then he sat back, folded his hands neatly over his chest, and closed his eyes, listening to Jessica tentatively slurp at the warm drink.

He waited four minutes before she put down her mug and announced, “Okay, it’s cooled off now!” before returning to the drink with gusto. She’d finished before he had even gone halfway through his, and he made a mental note to make sure she didn’t get sick or shaky from too much sugar.

 _To: John  
Stop for chocolate milk and fish fingers on your way home. SH_

 _From: John  
Chocolate milk? Why chocolate?_

 _To: John  
Experiment. SH_

 _To: John  
Also, custard. SH_

“Well, that’s all the experiments I have for now,” he announced after he’d switched his mobile off and stowed it away in his pocket. “You have leisure time to do with as you please.”

Jessica looked almost disappointed. “Does that mean I have to go?” she asked in a small voice. Sherlock felt a different sort of tightening in his chest than before when he’d made her laugh.

“No, I already said you didn’t,” he sighed. “Another experiment may come up later that I’ll need your express assistance on. In fact, while I’m thinking of it, go study the number of credible plot devices in _Doctor Who_ while I do some chemistry out here.”

He shooed her into the sitting room, pressing the remote control into her hand, then began scrounging in the cupboards. Eyes narrowed with concentration, he pulled out a jar of peanut butter and loaf of bread, and set to work making toast with ill-practiced hands. He didn’t usually make food - typically, that was John’s duty, and Sherlock simply didn’t eat when he was out playing doctor - but he supposed this would be an opportune time to learn. As he worked, he watched Jessica stare rapt at the telly screen, occasionally shouting instructions to the man in the bow-tie onscreen or laughing.

There it was again, the warm tightness that had gone cold when Jessica thought she had to leave. Why had he reacted in such a way to that, to how forlorn she’d sounded? He didn’t even know this girl two hours ago, and now he was making her toast and letting her watch John’s television. It hadn’t been because she looked hungry or sad, either.

“How’s your studying faring?” he asked, sitting beside Jessica on the sofa and handing her the plate of toast. When she eyed it skeptically he set her with a stern gaze. “Scientists have to eat, especially peanut butter.”

“Why peanut butter?”

“Because it’s delicious, of course. I expect at least half of this toast to mysteriously disappear by the time I next look at that plate,” said Sherlock, and then turned resolutely to the television. "What's going on here?" he asked after several minutes of listening to her munch on the toast. "I don't understand the point of this program at all."

A blatant lie; John and Mycroft were the only people who knew that _Doctor Who_ was the one constant popular culture program Sherlock would ever follow, and the only one to constantly surprise him.

Jessica put down her toast and straightened authoritatively in her seat. "There are Cybermen in the shop, and the Doctor's supposed to die, but first he has to say goodbye to Craig, and he explodes the Cybermen with love," she explained in one breath, never tearing her eyes away from the screen.

"He blew them up with love?" asked Sherlock suspiciously. "That's illogical."

Practically vibrating off the sofa with enthusiasm, Jessica stood up on the cushion so her feet sank slightly, bouncing slightly. "No it isn't! See, Craig - he's the Doctor's friend - Craig was being turned into a Cyberman but then he heard Stormy - that's Alfie - that's Craig's baby - he was crying because he was with Val - she thinks the Doctor and Craig are Stormy - Alfie's daddies - and then the Doctor saw Amy and Rory - they were his companions but then they weren't - and then also River - she’s - wait..." She trailed off, confused by her own commentary, and Sherlock laughed.

“Why don’t you show me?” he suggested when she sat back down, looking petulant. “I practical demonstration might help. You be Craig and I’ll be the Cybermen.”

Her eyes lit up. “Okay! Wait, we need a Cyberhead to stick on Craig, and a baby Alfie!” Without waiting for him, Jessica streaked into the kitchen and emerged with a bowl, then took up the union jack cushion John was partial to. “This is Alfie, okay? He’s over here in the shop with Val.” She dropped the improvised baby into Sherlock’s chair, then scuttled back over to the sofa and handed Sherlock the bowl. “This is the Cyberhelmet. You have to try and get it on my head, okay? And I’m gonna try to get away, but then - well, just wait and you’ll see. Try to get it on my head!”

Sherlock dutifully raised the bowl and mechanically moved to bring it toward her face. He cleared his throat before speaking. “ _You will lead us_ ,” he said in perfect imitation of a Cybervoice that made Jessica’s eyes go wide. “ _You must be upgraded_.”

As the bowl moved closer to her face, Jessica struggled against invisible bonds holding her to the sofa. “No! No!” she wailed theatrically - Sherlock could see a great career in dramatics ahead for her. “Alfie needs me! Please! Doctor, help, help!”

“ _Your emotions will be eradicated_.”

With one last pitiful whimper, Jessica allowed Sherlock to put the bowl over her face and went still. He waited several moments, wondering what she was going to do next, and she pulled her head back enough to free her mouth. “This is the part where Stormy - Alfie - is crying, okay? But you have to say the last bit about ‘conversion complete’.”

He nodded gravely. “Alright. _Conversion complete_.”

“Good, now Alfie’s crying.”

“Okay.”

Jessica tucked her head back into the bowl, was still for several moments, and then quietly jerked her shoulders and raised her arms quickly enough to dislodge Sherlock’s and rip the bowl away from her face with a shout. “Alfie!” she cried, jumping off the sofa and lovingly pulling the cushion into her arms. She glanced at Sherlock from the corner of her eyes and tisked at him. “You have to blow up now, because I blew you up with love.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, right, sorry.” Then he made an exploding gesture with his hands and flopped over onto his side, slid off the cough, and fell to the carpet, unmoving. Jessica giggled; he slid one eye open a fraction. “Was that acceptable?”

“Mm-hm.”

Sherlock sat up but remained on the floor. “Good. I think I have a better grasp of it now; thank you. May I see Alfie?”

“He prefers to be called Stormaggedon: Dark Lord of All,” supplemented the girl, crossing the sitting room and placing her baby into Sherlock’s arms.

Before she could step away he tugged the hem of her - his - shirt, pulling her in to sit on his leg. She giggled. “Now,” he said seriously, “I believe we have to do a thorough eye-exam on you before we do another experiment, because this so-called baby looks like a cushion to me. Here, look closer!” And then he popped her in the face with the union jack; she shrieked and leaped away to grab her own cushion.

Leaping to his feet, Sherlock arranged himself into a comically-defensive position while Jessica ran toward him. He swung his hand back widely and slowly, allowing her to make a blow for his stomach and doubling over. “Oh, you got me a good one!” he groaned, and Jessica laughed before hitting him on the head. “Oy! You’ve already gotten me; that’s just rude!”

As he sat up Jessica leaped back, still clutching her pillow as she grinned. “Well you gotta get up faster!” she protested gleefully.

“Faster, you say?” he asked shrewdly, and leaped to his feet in the blink of an eye, wielding his cushion high over his head. Seeing as he veritably loomed over her, Jessica shrieked with laughter and ran clear across the flat into the kitchen to escape him.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a good half hour and innumerable circuits of the flat before Sherlock finally performed a rather impressive maneuver and Jessica dove into his old bedroom door to avoid being caught. “Wow!” she exclaimed, instantly forgetting the pillow-fight to look at the newspaper clips that practically papered the walls. “What’s all of this?” Sherlock followed her into the room and glanced over the familiar territory before turning his attention to Jessica. It was like he was looking through her eyes, feeling that same wonderment and delight for something new, just the way he had felt all those years ago when he was her age. She was a few years away from how old he’d been when Carl Powers happened, but he still could feel the pull working on her.

“This is where I put all of my souvenirs from old cases,” he told her, lowering himself to sit on the old bed. As though sensing she were about to get a story, Jessica scooted up to sit beside him, leaning happily against his arm. “You see that gyroscope up there? That was a case almost...ten years ago now, when I was still at university. There had been a particularly vicious-...well, there was a bad man, and he was hurting people in order to steal things from them - very expensive things. That gyroscope is solid gold, and one of the items stolen. When I successfully saved-...solved the case, the owner gave it to me.”

Kicking her feet idly against the edge of the bed. “You’ve never told a story before, have you? Only you’re not very good at it,” she said frankly.

Sherlock scoffed. “You want a better story? Fine. Once upon a time, there was a consulting detective. He was a consulting detective because all of the detectives at Scotland Yard were idiots and couldn’t do anything for themselves properly, but they wouldn’t hire him either. So one day, the consulting detective was looking into a case while he was hi- _ill_ , and that was a very bad idea because when one tries working when they are _ill_ , it makes it very difficult to concentrate. The consulting detective had been getting ill quite a lot over the past several years, but it was his own fault, and he really oughtn’t have done so many things to make him so - um - ill.”

“What was wrong with the consulting detective?” Jessica asked in a small voice. “Did he have cancer too?”

Suddenly, it felt as though Sherlock had swallowed a block of ice. “Who else has cancer?” he replied, bemused and concerned against his instinct. He leaned in and conspiratorially whispered, “It’s not you, is it?”

Jessica smiled and shook her head; he was flooded with relief. “My daddy had cancer,” she explained. “He had cancer for a _really_ long time, and then he went to heaven.” After a moment Sherlock heard her sniffle quietly, and put an arm around her shoulders without looking at her fighting so hard not to cry.

“This was a different kind of being sick,” he continued as though there had been no interruption, letting Jessica get things out of her system without being ashamed. “The consulting detective took different types of potions, because he thought they would make him clever, but they really didn’t. They just made him ill, but he couldn’t stop taking them. He was usually able not to make himself ill when he was on cases, but he had been getting worse with his potions, taking them more often and getting more ill...”

He told the story of his last case before Mycroft threw him into rehab, changing words that might offend a child’s sensitive nature, and by the time he finished Jessica had stopped crying. “Was that better?” he asked, but received no response. “Jessica?”

She had fallen asleep on his arm, cheeks flushed and breathing softly.

Feeling his chest constrict almost painfully, Sherlock gingerly lifted her, trying not to jostle too much. His bed wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy place - even after John had insisted on clearing out half of his hoarded junk - and so Sherlock carried her back out to the sitting room and rested her on the sofa. The blanket that used to be on the back of the furniture piece had been regrettably destroyed in an experiment a week before - John had not been happy with that - but since then Sherlock had successfully nicked a suitable replacement.

The orange of the shock-blanket looked rather appropriate wrapped around Jessica, and if Sherlock took a bit longer than necessary to tuck it around her, or brush a stray curl behind her ear, then there was no one around to see it.

It hadn’t been because she’d looked so tired, if that’s what anyone had been thinking.

When John finally came home, just coming out of a double-shift at the surgery, Sherlock had put the plate of half-eaten toast in the bin and retrieved the cushions from his old bedroom - placing one gingerly under Jessica’s head. “Shh,” he hissed as soon as the doctor opened the door.

Mouth twitching into half of a smile, John allowed Sherlock to swoop down and kiss him before shrugging off his coat. “Why am I being quiet?” he whispered, toeing off his shoes without noticing the extra pair of pink trainers mingled in because his eyes were glued to his partner.

Sherlock briefly considered coming up with some clever lie, but then realized it would be pointless, and gestured John into the sitting room. The doctor looked suitably confused but followed the instructions given to him. It didn’t look any cleaner or messier than usual, there were no burn-marks on the ceiling, the skull was intact, there was a child asleep on the sofa, he didn’t notice any new holes in the - _hold on_.

The silence in the room went stale as John did a double-take and looked at the little girl sleeping on their sofa, hands tucked plaintively under her chin and lips parted as she breathed. He turned to Sherlock with wide eyes. _What’s this?_ he asked with a wave of his arm.

A shrug was Sherlock’s response. _What does it look like?_

John pursed his lips. _It looks like a strange kid on our sofa, you idiot._ Then he put his hands on his hips and he shook his head slightly. _What’s it doing here?_

 _She,_ Sherlock corrected with a twitch of his eyebrows before waving his hand at the sofa’s occupant. _And at the moment, sleeping_.

“Sherlock,” John whispered warningly.

Sherlock knew what would happen next if he didn’t think quickly. If he didn’t think quickly John was going to go to his bag, pull out his mobile, and call Social Services to take Jessica away. And though a part of him knew that Jessica would probably be in more experienced and capable hands than his if she went, it still felt like there was a hole being ripped in his stomach. He gripped John by the elbow and pulled him into the kitchen.

“John, I know what you’re thinking,” he began quietly, and John let out a breath of laughter. The ‘of course you do’ was implied. “She was assisting me with a few experiments. It’s not as though I could have called you away from work, could I?”

“So you took a child off the streets?” John replied in an incredulous whisper. “What if she’s got parents looking for her? You could be arrested, Sherlock! Not to mention if you had her doing anything dangerous, and don’t think I didn’t notice that she was wearing your clothes - do you want people thinking you’re a paedophile?!”

He leaned right into John’s space - John hated when he did that, but it was important - and narrowed his eyes. “Her father’s dead and there is no mother to worry about,” he hissed venomously. “She’s homeless, John. She followed me home, and now she’s sleeping, so leave your mother-henning for a few hours, will you?”

They had another silent sparring match - this time with their eyes - and finally John sighed. “Alright,” he agreed. “Fine, she can stay tonight. But only tonight, Sherlock, I mean it.” Sherlock nodded in agreement and John pulled him down for another quick kiss. “What’s her name, then?”

“Jessica.”

The shorter man repeated the name to himself slowly, then shook his head. “Have you two eaten?” he asked as though there was nothing unusual about a strange child sleeping on his sofa. At least not anymore.

“She had toast earlier, but didn’t finish.” John’s eyebrows show up - Sherlock, cooking? - but he ignored the nonverbal barb. “We’ve got nothing else in but peanut butter,” he continued.

He could see the signs that John was fighting another sigh, but didn’t let it bother him. “Right, then, can you, I dunno, deduce what sort of takeaway Jessica would like?” he asked, trying very hard to sound put-out but coming on as amused.

Sherlock smirked. “I can do you one better.”


	4. Chapter 4

As though the devil itself were at his heels, Sherlock galloped into the sitting room. “Jessica!” he shouted like the world were ending. The girl snapped awake, gaping at the monstrosity of a man before her. “Jessica, listen, this is very important - so important the universe might depend on it if you don’t answer!” He could sense John’s alternating alarm and amusement even from where the doctor was in the kitchen as he knelt and grasped Jessica’s shoulders.

“What, what?!” she replied, zero-to-sixty in under a minute at the prospect of danger and adventure.

Leaning in closer to her, Sherlock asked, “What type of takeaway is best?” in a low, urgent voice.

There was a moment’s pause while Jessica obviously thought very hard about the question. “Fish and chips?” she guessed.

Sherlock patted her on the shoulder, sagging comically with relief. “Oh, good, good, thank you, perfect.” She giggled, able to see through his clever ruse. “Well, now that you’re awake, I suppose introductions are in order. John? Come meet my new assistant.”

Sheepishly, John ventured from the kitchen into the sitting room. “Hello there.”

“Jessica, this is John Watson. John, this is Jessica.”

For several moments, Jessica looked thoughtfully from one man to the other. Analyzing, Sherlock realized after a moment, she was analyzing how close to one another they were, their body language, the accidental coordination of their clothes. “Is he your boyfriend?” She had, shockingly enough, asked John.

The shorter man’s eyebrows shot up. “Sorry?” he asked.

“Is Mister Homes -”

“- _Holmes_ -”

“Is Mister Holmes your boyfriend?”

She was blinking so innocently up at them that Sherlock nearly smiled, but instead nodded at John, reminding him that he was the one Jessica had asked. Looking nervous and uncomfortable, John lowered himself to sit on the arm of the sofa. “Well, er, actually we’re...do you know what partners are?” he asked, turning red around the ears.

Jessica nodded immediately, beginning to kick her legs against the side of the sofa. “My uncle Robby had a husband too. He was nice; he gave me my BaCoN t-shirt.”

“Your bacon t-shirt?”

Her face lit up at the question. “Yes! Mister Hose -”

“- _Holmes_ -”

“- Holmes, are my clothes sterilized yet?” she asked, tugging on Sherlock’s arm until he was convinced he heard something pop. When John raised his eyebrows over her head, Sherlock rolled his eyes and prompted Jessica to tell the good doctor all about the rules of being a Very Important Scientist. “Oh! Well, the rules are that there’s a Very Important Scientist uniform - that’s this - and that you have to have clean hair - mine is even all squeaky, see? - and also...um...oh! Also! Very Important Scientists always ask for help when they need it!”

“Excellent,” Sherlock praised with all the gusto of a 97-year-old history professor, patting her on the shoulder. “Shall we do an experiment with fish and chips next, then?”

“Yes!”

Either Mrs. Hudson’s eyesight was going, or she had switched Jessica’s clothes from the wash machine to the tumble-dryer under the assumption that Sherlock needed well-worn children’s clothes in order to put her own things through the wash. Jessica was more than pleased to pull on her t-shirt and trousers while they were still warm, hardly even waiting to get to the bathroom before tripping out of Sherlock’s unused shorts.

“See, it says ‘bacon,’ but it’s actually the _elements!_ ” Jessica explained enthusiastically once she was dressed, laughing before she’d even started speaking. Sherlock shook his head at the ridiculous ingenuity while John grinned at Jessica’s unstoppable giggling. “Do you wanna hear a science joke? What do you do with dead scientists?”

The grin on John’s face had softened into something more tender when he looked at Sherlock, though as to why that was the detective was clueless. “What do you do with dead scientists, Jessica?” John replied.

Fighting so hard to keep from laughing that she had to bite her lip, Jessica practically shouted, “You _Barium!_ ” before collapsing into helpless laughter. Sherlock thought that there was something in his chest fighting to break free as Jessica supported herself by leaning against his hipbone. John narrowed his eyes with thought at the gesture.

“Schrödinger’s cat walks into a bar, and doesn’t,” deadpanned Sherlock. The laughter of his tiny companion petered out as a bemused expression crossed her face. He could feel John’s eyes on him and didn’t care. “ _Don’t_ tell me you don’t know Schrödinger’s cat.” The barest hint of an eager smile beginning to form on her face, Jessica shook her head, and with an almighty groan of faux disappointment Sherlock hefted her up and then plonked her back down on the floor. “You have _so much_ to learn. But first, fish and chips.”

“Yes! Yes yes yes yes yes!" Jessica agreed ardently, practically climbing the detective like a tree in her excitement. John simply shook his head, watching them with an utterly dumbstruck expression on his face. But there was something else there too, something warm and bright and indescribable that made Sherlock want to run with how fast his heart was beating.

Shaking himself free of an apparent thoughtful lapse, John took up his coat again and offered Sherlock his. "Shall we go together, then?" he suggested. "What d'you think, Jessica?"

She had already somehow managed to climb halfway up Sherlock's back, arms looped around his neck and shoulders. "Uh-huh!" Her voice was muffled in the fabric of the detective's shirt, which was wrinkled and stiff from being in the bathwater earlier. He had to shake her off in order to put on his own coat and then wandered into the bedroom to find something suitable for her, as all she had was her worn-out t-shirt. She looked utterly ridiculous even in the old coat Sherlock dug out of the closet from his uni days. Though no Belstaff, it still hung nearly to Jessica's knees. But she seemed more than happy to swim in it, especially once Sherlock reluctantly allowed her to jump onto his back again.

It hadn’t been because she looked cold.

John had to slip her trainers on for her. "I really like your shoes, Jess," he said, admiring the pink and how the shoes sparkled even through the grime. "Think they have a pair in my size?"

That imagery was too much even for Sherlock, and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing with Jessica. Instead he studied the trainers, unable to draw himself away. 

Not very old, only a few months at the most, and yet coated at least once with muddy water. Could have simply been one too many adventurous leaps into puddles, but there was a distinctive splash-pattern that suggested walking rather than jumping. The laces had been replaced once since she'd gotten the shoes and were already fraying in places despite obvious care shown by the concentration Jessica took in untying them. Her name had been written neatly on the inside in felt pen, most likely by an uncle or her dying father, but as both uncle and father had vanished from her life around the same time it meant the death had not been so long ago, only two months at the most. The weather had only gotten colder in the past week or so, which was why Jessica had no coat - she'd been packing light or perhaps lost it or thought she would find a home before the seasons changed. And yet she hadn't been in a care center, which suggested she'd run away after her father died to avoid Social Services.

Conclusions: a relative had either been in the system or was a registered foster parent, and offhandedly told her stories about the experience, probably before her father was diagnosed - “a really long time” could mean only a year to a child. Her father bought her a new pair of shoes when he was given his prognosis. Her uncles bought her a new shirt as well, to soften the blow. For some reason they couldn't be her legal guardians - could be money troubles, if they were helping her father with his debts - and so when she heard she was going to be handed over to Social Services she fled. She probably hadn’t even waited until after the funeral, and therefore had had no closure.

Without realizing it, he’d made it down the stairs and onto the street while thinking, and had to carefully swallow the curious blockage in his throat before John or Jessica looked. “What’s your surname, Jessica?” he asked. “I don’t think it was on your resumé.”

 _Resumé?_ he could see John mouthing at him, but ignored it in favor of the face hovering beside his with its pointy chin on his shoulder.

“Why?” she asked, suspicious.

Of course, police had probably asked her before. “Oh, never mind. It’s not important, is it?” He dismissed the topic altogether as they watched the city glow with golden evening light. “Do you see that intersection? I once caught a criminal at that intersection. And over there is where, just last month, John here rugby-tackled a smuggler, if you can believe it.”

Jessica gasped and swung round to Sherlock’s other shoulder to look at John. “Did you _really_ do that, Mister Watson?” she asked, admiration practically making her words glow in the air between them.

There already was a red tinge forming on the edges of John’s ears. “Er, yes, I did.” In actuality, he’d shot the smuggler, but they didn’t need to tell Jessica that.


	5. Chapter 5

“Look!” Jessica practically shrieked, pointing over Sherlock’s shoulder into the park. “Ducks!” She scrambled back down to the pavement and had to be held onto to keep from running right into traffic to get at the waterfowl in the pond. When the lights changed, Sherlock and John - who had both grabbed onto her in a moment of panic - grasped her hands to walk her between them into the park for a small detour. They weren’t all that hungry yet anyway. Several people - mostly older ladies - looked at the three of them and exchanged fond smiles with their own companions.

Once in the relatively safer confines of the park, Sherlock and John released her hands and Jessica streaked away to look at the ducks. They didn’t go as close to the water, but kept a careful eye on her and occasionally called out to make sure she didn’t lean too close. That was mostly Sherlock, actually, who twitched every time she reached out her fingers toward one of the birds.

There was a click to Sherlock’s right, and he turned to see John snapping a photograph of him. “John!”

His husband grinned and tucked his phone away. “What? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so wound up before.” He let out a low whistle and wrapped an arm around his waist. “So much for a sociopath.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but leaned into John. “I’m still a sociopath John, I assure you.”

“Then what possessed you to let a homeless child follow you home?”

The corner of his mouth twitched almost painfully as Jessica reached out and nearly fell over. “Jessica, step back a bit, would you?” he called out before regaining his composure. “It was...nothing. I did it because I wanted to and that’s that.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, fighting the urge to run down to the water’s edge and lift the girl until she was an acceptable distance away.

John eyed him carefully, pursing his lips. “Is it-...is it because she looks like you?” When Sherlock rounded on him in shock he shrank back slightly. “No, seriously. I mean children tend to gravitate toward adults who look more like them, and so perhaps it’s like that for adults to children as well? She’s the spit of you, except with darker eyes.”

“Like yours,” murmured Sherlock absently, then caught himself a moment too late. Oh good, now his face was hot with embarrassment. “I mean - no - that’s _not_ why. I didn’t even look at her first.”

He sighed quietly, knowing he would never live that down, and John continued speculating. “Well, I suppose even an automaton would feel sorry for such a skinny little thing,” he reasoned casually.

“It wasn’t because she was thin,” Sherlock immediately argued, then bit his tongue again. “Would you stop prying? I took a child home and that’s the end of it. You can call the damn Social Services tomorrow if you want to; I won’t bat an eyelash.” He had to squint his eyes carefully and stare determinedly at Jessica for several moments before he would allow himself to look at John without worry.

John nodded and took his hand. “Alright. Jessica, come on back now!” With a resigned noise Jessica returned from her entertainment with the ducks, then pulled Sherlock’s hand from his pocket to wrap it around hers.

They got fish and chips, as promised, and then because John forgot they stopped for a bottle of chocolate milk before bringing the food back to the flat.

“Mister Watson, are you in the army?”

John blinked and looked up from his chips. “Er, yes - or I mean I was. Did Sherlock tell you that?”

She shook her head. “No, I saw a picture in Mister Holems-”

“- _Holmes_ -”

“Mister Holmes’s room with all the cool stuff in it. Except that there’s no bow ties or fezzes in there.”

Sherlock nodded gravely. “I’ll make certain to acquire a fez, and if you look very carefully there is a bow tie in there. Not now! After you eat something and finish your milk.” Jessica sighed and took a long sip from her milk.

“Mister Watson, why did you marry Mister Howes?”

“It’s _Holmes_ ,” John laughed. “And I married him because I love him, of course.”

Nodding solemnly, Jessica then turned to Sherlock. “Why don’t you have the same last names if you’re married?” she went on to ask, the curious little gosling.

Sherlock set aside his half-eaten meal and quirked an eyebrow at her. “John and I have both made reputations for ourselves with the names we had. He has patients - he’s a doctor, you see - who know him as Watson and I have clients who know me as Holmes. If one of us were to change it would be confusing for several people, so we didn’t bother.”

“But don’t you _want_ people to know you’re married?” asked Jessica, obviously very confused.

Exchanging rehearsed glanced, John and Sherlock quietly decided who would answer this time around. “It doesn’t matter what other people think, Jessica,” said Sherlock seriously. “John and I know that we’re married, and precisely how we feel for one another, so what other people think doesn’t matter, does it?”

She considered this for a very long time, picking at her fingernails, which were in poor condition. “I guess that makes sense,” she agreed at last. “Uncle Robby and Uncle Bruce love to tell people they’re married.”

“Why don’t you live with your Uncle Robby and Uncle Bruce, Jess?” asked John, brows furrowed with concern.

Jessica shrugged and didn’t speak until she gulped the four fat chips she’d stuck in her mouth. “They already got loads of kids.”

Ah, there it was, then. Foster parents, most likely, as the adoption process could take years.

“Last Christmas we went to their house, and Daddy asked Uncle Robby if they were going to get anymore, and Uncle Robby said ‘no way that another kid’ll ever fit in here!’ So I never asked.”

Sherlock had to fight the urge to throw something, and could see that John felt the same way. Only seven years old and she felt extraneous in her own family.

“They must be very worried about you,” John prompted. Sherlock already could see him itching for his mobile, wanting to set things to his version of rights, and took his hand to stop him, reminding him of his promise to call Social Services the next day.

Shrugging and sticking a finger in her milk to fish out a bit of chip that she’d dropped in, Jessica didn’t seem too bothered. “They were nice, but I only ever saw them at Christmas or when Daddy got sick.”

Before John could ask Sherlock mouthed the word _cancer_ to him, and he nodded understandingly.

“Mister Holmes, do you wanna see a picture of my TARDIS?”

He shot up his eyebrows in faux-disbelief. “You don’t have a TARDIS.”

Jessica nodded, beaming, and ran out to the foyer. She returned with one of her shoes, and peeled away the inner sole to pull out a crumpled and water-damaged photograph. She unfolded it very carefully and smoothed it out on Sherlock’s knee. “See? Daddy painted my cabinet for me to look like the doors of the TARDIS! And on the inside it looked just like the inside!”

“The inside looked like the inside?” smirked Sherlock.

“Yeah!” nodded the girl without noting the redundancy. “That was after the Eleventh Doctor came on the show, but Daddy liked the Tenth better so he made it look like that one instead. I miss my room.” She crouched on the floor until her nose was only a few inches away from the worn-out photo, rubbing one finger over the doors of a TARDIS long lost. “I wish I had a real TARDIS. Then I could find the Doctor and we could go back in time and then he could fix my Daddy.”

Cautiously, Sherlock exchanged a glance with John - who looked utterly devastated - before smoothing a hand over Jessica’s back. “I know you do,” he said carefully. “But, well...if you had your own TARDIS you would have just run off with the Doctor to have adventures, and I’d be lost without an assistant like you here. Imagine the bubble experiment! That would have been rubbish without you!”

Jessica nodded slowly to herself without looking up. Then, in a higher voice, she asked, “Can we maybe do the bubble experiment again?”

He moved his hand from her back and ran it through her hair; she leaned into the contact. “Well, of course we have to; all Very Important Scientists do experiments at least twelve times before drawing any conclusions. However, we’d have to wait until you got really properly dirty, wouldn’t we?” he reasoned. “How about tomorrow?”

John looked like he was going to remind him that he was calling Social Services tomorrow, but Sherlock silenced him with a glance. _You said after work_ , he reminded his husband silently. The fight instantly left the smaller man, and he nodded.

When they finished with their dinner Sherlock put in a _Doctor Who_ DVD. He and John stretched out on the couch while Jessica jumped around on the furniture in time with the story. She paused for breath between episodes, and was dead asleep on the rug within minutes.


	6. Chapter 6

John was up bright and early the next morning, making sure he had time to get ready before work, and nearly had a heart-attack when he passed through the sitting room until he remembered the events of the day before. Jessica. Asleep on the sofa. Right. God, she looked cute wrapped up in that shock blanket Sherlock nicked from an ambulance. She really was like a tiny Sherlock, but with feelings.

Feelings that Sherlock was obviously trying to pretend he didn’t have.

As he made himself a bit of breakfast, he continued to contemplate Sherlock’s reasoning behind taking Jessica home with him. Certainly, John knew that his husband wasn’t the heartless bastard many people believed he was, but to actually be charitable was definitely a stretch for the self-proclaimed sociopath. Especially when that sociopath had a reputation to uphold after it was threatened by entering into a civil partnership.

He turned off the kettle as soon as it started to steam, not wanting to wait for his tea to cool off, and paused when he heard the soft pad of tiny footsteps on the linoleum. “Mister Watson?” came Jessica’s voice, raspy with sleep. John turned and smiled at her, feeling his heart constrict at the adorably-rumbled girl as she rubbed at her eyes.

“Hey, Jess, good morning,” replied John immediately, pulling out a chair for her at the table. She crawled up into it and lay her head on the table. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mm-hmm,” murmured the girl through her tangled hair, then turned her head. “I like your sofa.”

He grinned and turned back to the breakfast on the stove. “That’s good. Do you want some breakfast?”

“Yes please.”

At least she was well-mannered, John thought to himself as he turned the eggs over, hoping the smell would bring Sherlock out too. She wasn’t just well-mannered either, she was sweet and funny and so quick to love everyone, even Sherlock. Though he supposed that Sherlock hadn’t exactly been trying not to be lovable in this situation. In fact, as he had said before, he had never seen Sherlock so openly caring toward anyone else other than John himself. Yesterday, Sherlock had laughed, and made jokes, and allowed a child to climb onto his back. He'd even been more affectionate with John, at least out in public. Usually he didn't like to attract attention to himself, but it seemed that with Jessica around dominating everyone's attention he'd been able to relax.

John slid a few eggs onto a plate and passed it to their current houseguest, who made a sleepy sound of thanks before sitting up properly. They ate in relative quiet, John running through his mental inventory, Jessica kicking her feet against the chair legs, and almost three years of the most absurd things he'd ever seen in his life still wasn't enough to soften the absurdity of this sight. A harmless, sweet, intelligent girl of seven, who looked an awful lot like his husband, sitting at the table eating eggs. It was just normal enough to be completely abstract on Baker Street.

 _She doesn't belong here_ , John reminded himself firmly. _The flat is a fire hazard at best, and she's got family looking for her. Calling Social Services is the best thing to do for her._

Then he considered what it would be like in a home where there were always other children around, some who were likable and some who had become hardened and cynical from life in the system, always coming and going like ebbs and tides, nothing constant or certain besides her guardians. Then his mind turned to the system itself, and he quickly shook that away before he could consider how quickly a girl like Jessica could vanish into obscurity there.

 _It's for the best,_ he reminded himself.

John finished his breakfast quickly, then turned the telly on to some cartoons. "I'll keep the volume low, so you don't wake -"

"Don't bother, John, I'm already up," interrupted Sherlock from the bottom of the stairs. His hair was ridiculously tousled and eyes squinted with sleep. Long-time experience told John he wasn't nearly as cranky as he looked. Sherlock slept the same way they shagged after a dangerous case: hard, fast, all over the bedroom (including the floor and on one peculiar experience the hall), and usually with no small fare of consequential aches in the morning.

He smiled fondly at his husband and leaned up for a kiss. "Morning, love. Would love to stay, but I’m already late. I left you some breakfast in the oven, try to remember to eat it, yeah? Love you."

Sherlock hummed absently in reply, but the kiss pressed to the top of his head accompanied by the fingers in his hair signaled that Sherlock had received the message and reciprocated.

"Bye Mister Watson," called Jessica sleepily from where she'd migrated to the sofa. Just before John left he saw Sherlock lift her bodily up, plonk himself onto the sofa, and drape the child over him like a blanket. He shook his head and locked the door behind him, smiling all the way out.

There would have been more than enough opportunities during his day at the surgery for John to make a quick call to Social Services and alert them of the situation. There had been nearly twenty minutes between Mrs. Virtue and Mr. Pok, and yet when John had the office phone in his hands all he did was look down at the number he'd scribbled off the internet until the receptionist buzzed him for another patient. He resigned himself to waiting until after he got home once the cold and flu patients started rolling in around noon. Maybe after supper; Jess could do with one proper meal from them before going to a care center or her uncles.

During his afternoon break, instead of calling Social Services, John went online and looked up missing children from the past few months. About halfway down the list was Jessica Haynesworth, aged 6 when she went missing, turned 7 in the interim, last seen at St. Bart's hospital where her father died, is very open with strangers, relatives are very concerned, please call with any information, et cetera. It was accompanied by a photograph of Jessica and her father, the two of them bundled up in his bed at the hospital, beaming at the camera. They looked happy.

On his way home, John made a quick round of the shops, picking up some veg and things to make a proper dinner later. The whole while he couldn’t help wondering what Sherlock and Jessica had gotten up to that day. He hoped to God there hadn’t been a murder Lestrade required help with; the last thing they needed on their records was taking a child to a crime scene.

When he arrived back at 221B, it was empty, but John didn’t get a chance to relish the quiet for long. Within ten minutes there were thundering footsteps on the stairs, and suddenly Sherlock burst into the flat with a breathless grin on his face. “I win!” he shouted. Jessica barreled through the door and crashed into the backs of his legs, sending them both to the floor in a laughing heap. John stepped out into their line of sight, smiling with fond amusement at the children in his care.

“How on earth is it possible for two people to get quite so filthy?” he asked, almost embarrassed by how impressed he was with the layer of dusty grime covering the two of them from head to foot.

Eager to supply an explanation, Jessica leaped to her feet and beamed. “We went to the park!” she said. “Mister Holmes an’ me, we went exploring for snipes! They really like bushes, but not the ones with brambles, and they especially like you if you’ve got a caterpillar on your finger, so I found five, and we still didn’t find a snipe! Then we climbed a tree - well a couple of trees - well a lot of trees - and a house - and then we took soil samples, see?” She ran back to Sherlock, where he was still lying prone on the floor, and pulled a handful of plastic bags from his jacket pocket.

“Very good,” John praised, looking at the labels written in the child’s untidy scrawl. “It looks like you got more of the soil on you instead of in you, though; I’d reckon you’re both about ready for a bubble experiment.”

Jessica practically danced in place with glee at the prospect of another experiment. “One of the bags burst!” she explained happily. “Also, sap!” She held out her arm so John could see the sticky patch on her elbow, covering a dirty scrape that was a worrying shade of red.

Carefully kneeling down so he and Jessica were eye-to-eye, John took her elbow in his hand. “Jess, does your elbow hurt?” he asked cautiously.

“Only a little bit,” dismissed the girl, but there was a pout in her lips that showed she was more impatient to get back to fun than willing to be honest. She hissed and pulled back when John touched it. “Don’t!”

Quick as a flash Sherlock was back on his feet, toeing off his shoes to keep from tracking into the house. “Shall we conduct another bubble experiment, Jessica?” The girl instantly streaked upstairs to the bathroom. Before following her, Sherlock murmured, “I’ll take a look at her elbow,” to John. “Sorry about the mess; she’s very eager to learn.”

“Quite like someone else I know,” John smiled, though abstained from a kiss until Sherlock had done an experiment in cleanliness of his own.


	7. Chapter 7

After an hour of splashing and giggling from the bathroom (many of them sounding like Sherlock rather than Jessica) John heard the shower start running and tiny footsteps plodding damply down the stairs. “Mister Watson?” called Jessica, and he waved from his place on the sofa. She was wearing Sherlock’s t-shirt and skull shorts again. “Mister Holmes says you have to do an experiment with my cut.” She ran over to sit next to him and showed him the scrape on her elbow. Now that the surrounding skin was clean, there were obvious signs of infection visible.

He made a sympathetic noise and gently pulled her arm closer to get a better look. “That looks a bit sore; sorry for grabbing at it earlier. When did you get the cut?” he asked, trying not to use his professional voice that tended to put children off.

“Um...I don’t really remember. It was raining and I fell in a puddle and a lady in a shop gave me a plaster.”

Well, that certainly helped. “Okay, er, you sit tight; I’m going to go get my bag from upstairs and put some medi- magic potion on this, okay?”

Jessica nodded gravely, keeping her sore arm cocked out to the side so it wouldn’t bush the back of the sofa as John got up. He’d worked with enough children to know that the word ‘medicine’ usually triggered tears, and so covered up the label of his iodine to make sure Jessica didn’t see.

The water stopped running just as he was coming out of the bedroom with the medicine and bandage - all that splashing about must have gotten Sherlock started getting clean before the shower. He prayed for the state of the bathroom before heading back down to the sitting room. “Alright, one magic doctor potion for icky cut experiments,” he announced as he replaced himself on the sofa. Jessica looked on with interested trepidation. “This stuff is special. It stings a bit, but it’s such a pretty yellow that you hardly even notice. Are you ready?”

Taking a very deep breath, she nodded and held out her elbow. Brave girl.

“ _Ow! Ow ow ow ow ouch!_ ” she shrieked as John swabbed the cut, kicking her feet into the side of the sofa ferociously enough to make the whole piece of furniture shake. Tears flooded her eyes but she held them back, sniffling enormously to keep them from spilling over.

John apologized all the way through, cleaning away any extra solution to keep her from getting a big yellow blob on her arm, and then deftly wrapping her elbow and pulling her in for a hug. “There, all done, you did so well,” he praised, suddenly wishing he had a sticker or sweet to give her like at the surgery.

There were footsteps thundering on the steps, and suddenly Sherlock burst into the room, still dripping but at least covered. “What happened?” he demanded, obviously having heard Jessica and now seeing her tears. He sagged slightly when he saw the bandage, and quickly composed himself. “Oh, of course. Right. Well, I’ll just...” The taller man vanished back up the stairs, face a brilliant shade of red that John wished he could have photographed.

“What a worrywart, eh?” he said to Jessica once they were alone again, still hugging her with one arm. She smiled wanly at him, wiping her eyes. “You’re much braver than you look.” To make her smile more natural, he tapped her nose to emphasize the word _much_. “And it feels better now, doesn’t it?”

She nodded quietly, but didn’t pull out of John’s arm just yet. “Mm-hmm.” If anything, she snuggled closer. The mobile in John’s pocket suddenly felt heavy as lead. _For the best for the best for the best..._

"Do you want to help me make supper?" he asked when the tears had quite literally been cuddled out of the girl, and she happily followed him into the kitchen. He'd bought a pre-cooked chicken so they wouldn't have to wait as long, but all of the vegetables were as fresh as could be found in October. With Jessica watching a safe distance away he prepared them on the stove.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the mixed broccoli and carrots. "I don't really like that stuff," she said idly.

Before John even could think of a way to coerce her into wanting vegetables Sherlock was swooping in to the rescue, now mostly dry and recovered from his embarrassment. "Are you certain?" he asked bemusedly. "Because they've just put another Very Important Scientist rule into place last week, and it includes eating all of one's veggies."

"Really?" deplored the girl with a pout.

Sherlock nodded. "I'm afraid so. But if the contents of this pot over here are what I think they are, John's also making potatoes, and potatoes and vegetables mixed are probably one of the most delectable things in all the cosmos."

When Jessica did not look convinced Sherlock leaned in. "Would I lie to you?"

Instantly she shook her head, and when John put a helping of veg and potatoes on her plate she barely grimaced at all before copying Sherlock, using the mashed potatoes as a sort of dip for her vegetables. “Yeah, I guess this is okay,” she shrugged. John and Sherlock shared a smile over her head.

As the evening dragged on, and they were watching some family-friendly film, Sherlock leaned across the sofa to John. Jessica was lying on her belly on the floor, staring rapt at the computer-animated fish and absently scratching the spot above her bandaged elbow. “You know, it would be simply irresponsible of us not to keep an eye on that infection overnight,” he reasoned.

Well, John was never one to fight with logic. He powered down his mobile for the night and wrapped an arm around his husband’s shoulders.

Before tucking her in on the sofa John put ice on Jessica’s elbow for ten minutes or so. She was already getting worn out and didn’t put up much of a fight. When he finished and got up to go upstairs, he was stopped in the door by Sherlock, who nodded at the sofa. He turned and sat Jessica watching him with her skinny little arms outstretched. Heart fit to burst, John went back, and gave her a hug and a quick kiss on the head before tucking the blanket more firmly around her. “Goodnight, Jess.”

“Goodnight Mister Watson.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re a good girl, Jessie.” Then, before the lump in his throat got any bigger, John stood up and shuffled up to bed, leaving Sherlock to his goodnights.

He felt his husband climb into bed a few minutes later, wrapping thin arms around his waist. “We have to call them tomorrow, Sherlock. I mean it. Two days is an act of kindness; three is an arrangement.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Why can’t it be?” he asked, voice oddly quiet. “Couldn’t we, I don’t know...keep her?” The silence was suddenly filled with tension that clung to their skin like fog. John tried not to think about it too much.

“No, Sherlock. She’s not a puppy. She’s still grieving for her dad and needs a stable environment that we can’t provide.”

The arms around his waist tightened almost convulsively, as though his husband was not in full control of his actions. “I could take time away from work with the Yard until she’s back to a normal routine. It might take some catch-up for the school she’s missed, but Jessica’s bright, she’ll be caught up in no time at all, and -”

“Sherlock.” John closed his hand around one of Sherlock’s. “She has family, and they’re looking for her. I found her on a missing persons list today at the surgery.”

“But she doesn’t want to go with them!” protested Sherlock instantly, fighting to keep his voice low. “She feels extraneous and unwanted with her uncles and foster cousins, can’t you see that? She likes it _here_ , and for some strange reason she likes _us_ , and I just know she’ll adore Mrs. Hudson and maybe having a niece will convince your sister to sober up! We could adopt her, John; we’re financially sound, and we have my old bedroom that we can arrange, and - and...”

The detective buried his face in John’s shoulder, burrowing there in the same way Jessica had only a few hours ago when the iodine had stung her. “What’s gotten into you?” John asked, wrapping himself around Sherlock tightly. “I mean it, Sherlock, what’s got you so upset over this? What made you take her home in the first place?”

He waited patiently, making the tone of his silence clear that he was not asleep but expectant. After a long enough time, Sherlock’s body relaxed against his and he breathed a slow sigh against John’s neck. “She was alone.”

“What?”

Another sigh. “She was alone, John. I told you about the few months I was sleeping rough after uni. I was able to interact with groups of homeless adults who functioned perfectly on their own, but I never got near the children. Not because there weren’t any - they’re _everywhere_ and it’s fucking _tragic_ \- but because they stuck together. They kept watch over one another and when they saw a stranger coming they fled together to hide in a place so safe you or I could never find it in a hundred years. They become one another’s family, and they never separate. But she was alone. Jessica was alone, with no one to look out for her, so I took it upon myself. I never expected her to be so bright or so...”

“Loving?” suggested John. The only response he got was Sherlock reinforcing his tight hold on John’s midsection. He didn’t know if that was a confirmation or a denial.

He didn’t know what to say, either. Sherlock knew what he was talking about, that much was certain, but it still wasn’t on to just pluck a child off the streets and claim her as one’s own, especially if she had family worrying about her. And yet, his mind was working, trying to find some way, some glimmer of hope that even if they couldn’t take Jessica in, maybe they could still see her once in a while, but even that seemed hopeless. Anyone would be wary of the two strange men who let a child into their home for no apparent reason and then wanted to see her again - the two strange men being gay, of course, never factoring in for some reason.

Sherlock didn’t seem to want an answer anyway, and fell asleep with his lips pressed to John’s shoulder. With a sigh that seemed to make his whole body shake, John nestled himself down and tried to do the same. He didn’t dream.


	8. Chapter 8

At first, John didn’t know why he woke up, blinking over at his alarm clock and seeing that it was three in the morning. His eyes felt dusty, and his arm had fallen asleep under Sherlock’s weight. At first, he was going to try rolling over and just going back to sleep, but then heard the floorboard creak.

“Mister Watson, are you awake?” Jessica asked, voice constrained with tears.

He shot upright, instantly alert. “Jessie, what’s wrong?”

There was a sniffle, and John groped around for the lamp. “M-my arm r-really _hurts_ ,” whimpered the girl.

“Okay, hold tight Jess, I need to find the la- okay, here comes the light. Now c’mere, let’s look at that silly old arm. Does it hurt here?” He carefully gave her wrist a squeeze, and she shook her head. “How about here?” He moved his hand a bit higher, and still nothing. Once more he moved his hand, and Jessica gave a tiny gasp, nodding her head frantically.

John reached blindly behind him and shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “Mmpf?” groaned the detective, shielding his eyes from the light. It took longer than it had for John, but he became alert quickly.

“How would you like to go for a ride in a big fancy cab?” asked John, looking at how the inflammation had spread beyond the confines of the bandage. Barely waiting for Jessica to nod, Sherlock carefully gathered her up and placed her into John’s arms. “Wha-?”

"You go get Jessica ready, and I'll call for our extra special cab," Sherlock instructed John, showing the shorter man that he was ringing Mycroft. Before the bemused doctor could ask or object Sherlock shooed him out and shut the door behind them.

Shaking his head at whatever foolishness Sherlock was cooking up, John took Jess downstairs and sat her on the sofa, wrapping her up in the shock blanket. "I'm going to go get our shoes," he told Jessica, still trying her damnedest not to cry, before shuffling out.

Moments later Sherlock was practically falling down the stairs, looking just as harried as John felt and twice as panicked.

"It's okay, Sherlock," he assured his husband while they were still in the other room. "Infections are nothing, just a round of antibiotics and we're home free." Sherlock nodded, clutching his mobile like a teddy bear, and they went to the sitting room together.

Jessica had curled up more tightly in the shock blanket while they were gone. John knelt and wriggled the high-topped trainers onto her feet while Sherlock sat quietly beside her, calming himself as much as the child.

By the time they'd gotten ready and made it out to the street one of Mycroft's anonymous black cars had pulled up at the kerb. Sherlock climbed in without offering an explanation, so John passed Jessica to him before getting in himself.

"Oh, hello John," greeted Mycroft as though they'd bumped into one another outside of Tescos. He looked annoyingly well put-together for three AM. "Sherlock here has been insisting that he needs a favor, but has neglected to say what that is."

John gaped openly at his husband, suddenly realizing what Sherlock had been up to.

"We need adoption papers," explained the detective at light-speed, trying to get it out before John could protest.

"Sherlock!"

"Do you really think they won't question our motives if we show up without a form of identification for her?" snapped Sherlock. "She's malnourished, her bones are brittle, and she's wearing my clothes; if we don't find a way to prove she's ours we'll be subject to a full-blown investigation rather than just a reprimand for taking in a homeless child.”

“But she’s _not ours_ , Sherlock,” John shot back despairingly. That seemed to quiet Sherlock slightly. “I’m sorry. I know you wish she were, but Jessie’s not ours.”

There was only a moment’s hesitation before his husband continued his efforts. “But she could be.”

“But she _shouldn’t_ be.”

“Perhaps we ought to ask the child’s opinion?” Mycroft gently interrupted before a quarrel could break out. Embarrassed, they fell into silence and allowed the elder Holmes to look Jessica in the eyes, though Sherlock looked as though he dearly wanted to goose his brother simply because he was within reach. “Hello, my name is Mycroft.”

Jessica blinked at him. “Your nose is funny.”

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “I know.” Then, to John’s utter shock, he did some trick with fluttering his nostrils that made Jessica snort, then whimper when she jostled her arm. Mycroft made a sympathetic sound. “Now, I know your - hm - arm must hurt quite a lot, but I’d like to ask you some questions, Jessica.”

“Lucky guess,” Sherlock muttered. John elbowed him.

“Jessica, you have family members who are worried about you, but you feel like they won’t love you as much as their own children, don’t you?” continued Mycroft in favor of acknowledging his brother.

Slowly, as though unsure of what to make of this peculiar man, Jessica nodded.

“And you’re afraid of being put through the system, because of stories you’ve heard from other children?”

Again, she nodded. John saw Sherlock’s hand clasp her good shoulder comfortingly.

“You like my brother and Mister Watson, don’t you, Jessica?” Mycroft continued.

Another nod. “Mister Holes -”

“- Holmes -”

“Mister Holmes is your brother?”

“He most certainly is.” Sherlock’s brother seemed to think his next inquiry over for longer than the others. “Jessica, if your family were to agree, would you want to live with Sherlock and Mister Watson?”

He vaguely wished they would call him John like they did with Sherlock, but was stopped mid-thought when Jessica ardently nodded. Mycroft smiled at them both; Sherlock glowered back at him. “Well, I think that something can be arranged - not today, not tonight, mind you,” he hastily added when Jessica and Sherlock immediately sat at attention.

“We’ll have to have a meeting with your relations,” he went on. “They’ll want to know you’re going to be properly looked after if you stay with Sherlock and John. You’ll have to stay in another home for a while, until everything is in order.”

Slightly tremulous, Jessica nodded again. “Okay. But I’ll get to do more experiments, right?”

So overwhelmed was John with jumbled thoughts and emotions and questions that terrified him - could they do this properly? Could they raise a functional human being? Would she love them? What would she call them? Whose name would she take? - that he nearly didn't get out when they reached the A&E. Then Sherlock nudged him and he slid onto the pavement, holding out his arms to take Jess from him.

"Let me do the talking, brother mine," insisted Mycroft gently. "You did have a knack for mincing words into the most unusual combinations."

For once, Sherlock didn't protest; he was too busy telling Jessica about a toad she spotted on the pavement.

Mycroft spun a truly beautiful lie about how Sherlock and John were Jessica’s pending guardians, and they were having a weekend together to test the waters. The nurses accepted it without batting so much as an eyelash, and got Jessica settled in with an IV. She’d seen the needle and very nearly panicked, until a perfectly adequate nurse had told her it was a butterfly, and ‘flew’ it right down into the back of her hand.

“Try to go to sleep, Jess,” John told her once things had calmed down. Mycroft was gone, apparently making phone calls halfway across the country. “By the time you wake up your arm will be all better.”

When she merely stared at him with wide eyes, unconvinced, Sherlock perched himself on the edge of the bed. “You know, you’re much braver than me,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I hate hospitals.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” nodded Sherlock, closing his hand around the one that wasn’t occupied by needles. “Can’t stand them. I once got food-poisoning, and instead of going to the hospital I stayed home and was sick for two and a half days.”

Nodding quietly, John added, “You should have _seen_ the bathroom.”

Jessica smiled sleepily, every blink getting a little bit slower until she was out again at 5 AM. Sherlock carefully dismantled himself from the hospital bed and John slid a chair to him so he wouldn’t have to release the girl’s hand.

They leaned back in their uncomfortable chairs and dozed off - or at least John did - for another hour, until there was a quiet echo of high-heeled shoes on the tile floor outside and a woman came in. “Hello,” she whispered apologetically. Sherlock was already on his feet, shaking her hand as an excuse to scrutinize every detail about her. “I’m Laura; Social Services sent me.”


	9. Chapter 9

Laura didn’t stay long, just enough to explain how the meeting with Jessica’s uncles was going to go. She was obviously one of Mycroft’s people, but it didn’t stop her from being a Social Services agent either. They would have background checks done, of course (Sherlock winced at that news, but didn’t seem surprised), and Jessica’s uncles had the right to take her without argument unless there was concrete proof that they couldn’t take proper care of her. Sherlock silently agreed to everything, reminding Laura to keep her voice low. John was not entirely dozing, but not awake enough to know what was going on.

“Thank you,” he said softly before getting up from his chair. She smiled gratefully and sat; Sherlock carefully shook John awake. “John, it’s time for us to go.”

“Hmfwhat?” murmured John sleepily, getting mechanically up even though he didn’t know what was going on. Sherlock placed his hand on the small of John’s back and guided him out, not allowing himself a glance back into the room. If they were never to see Jessica again he wanted to remember the sunshine and her insatiable curiosity, not seeing her curled up impossibly small in a hospital bed with a well-meaning Social Services rep hovering over her. “Sh’lock, wh-”

“It’s fine, John,” he murmured, bundling his husband into a cab. “We’re going home.”

Three days had never felt so long before, not even in the stalest slump between cases. Sherlock would have been eyeing John’s Browning ages ago if he were not determined to be the perfect tenant until the background checks were complete. He felt as though he were on the verge of vibrating right out of his skin. Never before in his life had he considered fatherhood to be something desirable or even something to go out of his way to achieve, but now? Now he was enchanted by the thought of pink trainers tucked in so neatly beside his and BaCoN t-shirts and animatedly jabbering along to _Doctor Who_.

Even John had been affected, though he was more cautious with his hope than Sherlock was. They talked only briefly about either moving back into Sherlock’s room or having his old case mementos put into storage before dismissing it altogether. Optimism in a case like this was not only dangerous, but pointless. They had absolutely no power over what happened, and should therefore have bet on the worst.

And yet they didn’t.

Thursday dawned bright and cold, and if Sherlock’s hands trembled as he put on his best suit John didn’t mention it. They clasped hands and made the seemingly endless trek to the Social Services offices, where they were to have their meeting with Jessica’s uncles. They had been alerted that Jessica was alive and well, but had needed two days to arrange train tickets (they lived in Edinburgh) and babysitters (four foster children, one with Down Syndrome). Sherlock had to close his eyes to keep from deducing anything further about them and cling to John’s hand while they exchanged tense pleasantries.

“You must be the Uncle Robby we’ve heard so much about,” he heard John say politely, shaking the hand of the gangly dark-haired man. Bone structure and coloring suggested he and Jessica were closely-related; Sherlock wondered if John had deduced it in the same way.

The man smiled back and wrenched John’s hand. “That would be me. This is my partner, Bruce.”

“Cheers,” greeted the perfectly ordinary-looking shorter man, taking his turn with John. “You’re John, are you? Then this must be...god, I’m sorry, I’ve completely forgotten.”

When it was obvious that Sherlock was not going to introduce himself to the cheerful man, John smiled apologetically. “Um, yes, that’s Sherlock. Sorry, he’s not usually so quiet. He’s, well...we’re very fond of Jessica.”

The other couple exchanged a nervous glance, communicating with eye-contact alone, and finally Robby turned back to John. “Yes, well, we were meaning to ask...just how did Jessie come into your care?”

John laughed, stilted and anxious. “Well, actually, she, er, she followed Sherlock home. I was going to call Social Services as soon as I heard, but...well, they were having so much fun doing their experiments that I figured it couldn’t hurt to wait a bit longer.”

“Experiments?” echoed Bruce faintly.

“All child-safe,” Sherlock interrupted, finally managing to find his voice. “Bubbles, dirt, things like that. She loves science.” Then, without realizing quite what he was doing, he went on to describe how they’d played Cybermen, and their experiment with how long it took for cocoa to cool off, and Jessica’s innocent fascination with everything around, smiling all the while.

By the time he’d finished John was beaming but embarrassed, and Jessica’s uncles looked perplexed but happy.

They hemmed and hawed for another half hour or so, until finally it seemed that the uncles had been beating round the bush for quite a while and they finally pulled out the background check information. Sherlock closed his eyes; John squeezed his hand under the table.

“You two have pretty respectable careers,” commented Robby, paging through the folders before him. “A doctor-slash-retired war hero and a consultant for Scotland Yard? That’s very impressive.”

John thanked him with a nod. They knew what was coming next. Sherlock could hear the words hovering in the air ages before they surfaced. “However,” he sighed with the air of a man trying to avoid something very unpleasant, “our main concern was in Mr. Holmes’ history with drugs.”

“Not to mention the petty crime,” added Bruce.

Robby nodded. “Or the mood disorders.”

“Yeah, the suicide attempts really concerned us...”

John’s hand tightened sporadically around Sherlock’s arm, and he felt his heart rate dangerously increase. John already knew about the drugs, but the rest had never come up. He’d always intended to tell his husband about all of that, really he had, but the timing had never quite been right. There was never a good time to say _Oh, by the by, dear, I tried to kill myself five times as a teenager because my mother liked to call me ‘her little Monster,’ and the reason I was sleeping rough for a few months in my twenties was because I was so coked up I couldn’t remember where I lived; pass the sugar, would you?_

The couple continued to converse Sherlock’s many emotional shortcomings until he felt like he were no longer in the room. He’d absconded, and now some bizarre shadow of himself was hovering at the table, listening to them lay down his every swing like items on a grocery list. The hand John was holding was the only part of him still present. A solid limb floating in the middle of a shadow.

“The mood disorder directly correlated with the drugs,” he finally said when he’d focused enough energy to make his mouth real again. “I’ve been clean for four years and have no intentions of returning to that way of life; your concerns are irrelevant.”

Silence descended over the room, a downright uncomfortable one. It made Sherlock feel better knowing that he still had some power, and solidified once more.

Bruce and Robby looked appropriately cowed, staring alternately at the table and at one another. “We just want to know that Jessie will be well looked after,” Robby finally blurted out, looking almost desperately pained. “Jay was my only brother. We lost our parents when we were very young. Jessie’s the only blood family I’ve got left; you’ve got to understand why I’d be a bit concerned with two strangers - one of them with a history of drug use and manic depression - thinking they can raise my niece in a normal environment.”

Now it was Bruce who was squeezing his partner’s arm as he tried to regain control over himself. “Losing my brother to that wretched disease was not easy, and Jessie running away didn’t help. We want her to be looked at by a therapist, to -”

“We’ve already spoken to a very experienced doctor,” John nodded quietly, trying to return to the stiff politeness of earlier rather than this emotionally-charged conversation. “She’s going to get the help she needs. And we wouldn’t cut you out of her life, you must understand that. You would be more than welcome to come here and visit, or we could even make arrangements for her to see you in Edinburgh.”

Again, silence fell while the uncles nodded to themselves. It seemed that the table’s surface was suddenly very interesting, as everyone in the room was staring at it.


	10. Chapter 10

From the corner of the room, Laura finally cleared her throat quietly. “Sorry to interrupt,” she sincerely said. “I think that we should forego talk about arrangements such as travel and medical needs until a decision is made. Perhaps you’d like to see Jessica now, Mr. Haynesworth? I’ll just go fetch her, and then you all can talk with her about what she wants.”

They all agreed, and minutes later Laura was returning with Jessica. The girl didn’t look any different from when they last saw her, except that she was in different clothes (shoes still intact) and the infection on her arm had cleared up. However, there was a significant shift in her face to one of bright joy at the sight of the people waiting for her in the room, and for a moment it seemed she didn’t know who to run to first.

“Jessie-cat!” cried her uncle Robby, practically leaping out of his chair and opening his arms.

Decision made for her, Jessica launched herself into her uncle’s embrace. “Uncle Robby!”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, feeling the odd vibrating feeling rise up under his skin again. John’s hand anchored him in place. Jessica and her uncle talked animatedly for several minutes, and it wasn’t until he felt a sharp pressure in the sensitive skin of his forearm that he paid attention and realized that Jessica was positively ranting about him.

“...and then we went to the park and chased _snipes!_ Only then David - I didn’t like him - at Mrs. Norris’ house - she’s the lady I had to stay with with - she smelled like cats - David said that snipes aren’t real, and I told him ‘uh-huh they are, because Mister Homes said so!’ and then he threw a worm at me because he thought it would scare me - hah! - and then I told him how Mister Holes taught me that if you cut a worm in half it’ll just grow another head and then I showed him and _he_ got scared! It was so funny!”

Something seemed to occur to the girl while her uncle was praising her on teaching the David boy a lesson. She turned and looked right at Sherlock - keeping himself almost painfully still in his chair - then wrenched herself free of her uncle’s embrace to run to Sherlock’s side. “Mister Hose, David didn’t believe me when I told him that if you cut a worm in half it would grow another head, and then got scared and ran away when I showed him!”

He couldn’t fight smiling, and certainly had no desire to. “Well, of course he got scared! You are much braver than most children your age. And snipes are tricky; they’re only real when you believe that they’re real. But once you stop believing, they go away.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Would I lie to you?” he asked sternly, and Jessica rapidly shook her head, beaming. Then she blinked, seeming to find error in something going on, and started pulling on his chair. He scooted out slightly, bemused, and she pulled him bodily out of the chair. “What are you-?”

Warm, tiny arms encircled his waist, and Jessica buried her face in his midsection. “I missed you. Did you miss me?”

His throat suddenly was very sore, and he had to swallow before dropping to a knee and wrapping his arms back around her. “Of course I did; I was completely lost without my assistant. John was not nearly as good at the bubble experiment as you.” She giggled, and he pulled away, feeling the eyes of John and her other uncle on him. “Now, why don’t you go say hello to John and your uncle Bruce? I think they’re getting jealous.” He winked at her, his eyelid feeling like lead, and she scampered across the table to do as he said.

There was more talk, more business, but Sherlock wasn’t listening anymore. He sat in his uncomfortable chair and stared at the table surface until the little dust eddies all blended into one another. The only thing that held in him place, kept him from floating away into the cosmos forever, was the feel of John’s hand back on his arm, and then the sound of Jessica’s voice.

“What? No!”

He snapped his head up to look at the girl; her face was flushed and she looked utterly gobsmacked. John’s hand was suddenly crushing him, and the doctor would not look up. Jessica’s uncles looked grim but determined. Sherlock didn’t need to ask to know what they had said.

“We’re sorry,” said Robby, “really we are. But Jessie, you belong with us. I think this meeting’s over, yeah?”

The uncles started to stand up, and finally Sherlock felt something snap in the air when John lifted his head. “No, please,” the doctor blurted out unwittingly. Laura cleared her throat. “I know that this must seem foreign to you, and uncomfortable, but just give us a chance!”

Laura stood up as well and approached them. She looked just as upset as Jessica’s uncles, but also just as resigned. “Mister Watson, the decision’s been made. I’m sorry, there’s nothing more you can do. I’ll show you two out.”

“At least let us say goodbye-” John protested, but Sherlock pulled his arm free and grasped his husband’s hand. He pulled them both out without a glance back into the room, feeling a rush of adrenaline soaring through his veins that made him want to run and scream with the injustice of it all, but restrained himself. There was no power in fighting, not this time.

Mycroft’s car, the one that had taken them to the offices in the first place, wasn’t waiting for them out front as had been promised. John was beside him, looking numb and hurt in all the ways that made Sherlock want to rip someone’s innards out, namely his own, but that was apparently a contributor to why they would never be able to have what they wanted.

The air was too thin, too constricting, far too quickly. John felt Sherlock’s hand release his, and suddenly his husband was gone. John looked around, confused and muddled by bitter disappointment he hadn’t expected to feel, and found Sherlock curled in a ball on the pavement beside him, fists balled tightly in his black curls. He swallowed thickly, tried to tell Sherlock that he was making a spectacle of himself, but found he didn’t care anymore. His leg was stiff and painful when he hunkered down beside his husband and wrapped an arm around his thin shoulders. Sherlock was shaking.

He didn’t know how long they sat there, but when his legs began to fall asleep Sherlock stood again, pulling John up with him. They smiled blearily at one another, and John leaned up for a kiss laced with regret.

Then the collision happened.

A tiny bundle of energy was suddenly crushed against their joined bodies; they looked down and saw Jessica clinging to their jackets. That bright, brave girl, who had suffered infection and hunger and impossible heartache and yet still fought not to shed a tear, was sobbing into Sherlock’s side.

" _It's n-not f-f-fair!_ " she shouted, voice muffled in Sherlock's jacket. " _I w-want t-to go w-with y-you!_ "

The only time John had seen Sherlock so stricken was three years ago in a darkened swimming pool when he'd been bidden to say "Gottle-o-geer." He knelt back down and took Jessica's shoulders in his hands as her uncles and Laura ran out of the building after her. "Jess, it's not our choice," he said apologetically while Sherlock looked the opposite direction, his fingers tangling in Jessica's hair.

Robby caught up with them and pulled Jessica away. "Jessie, you have to stop doing that!" he reprimanded, obviously trying and failing to be gentle. "You're coming to live with me and uncle Bruce at our house."

" _I don't want to!_ " shouted Jessica, becoming more distressed by the minute. "I don't like it there! There are too many people _all the time_ and there's so much _stuff_ and _noise_ and the attic smells funny and the other kids laugh at me and tell scary stories and I don't want to go! Mister Holmes is nice and he watches Doctor Who with me and makes me feel smart and _if you make me go with you I’ll just run away! I will!_ "

For a moment it looked as though Robby was about to say that was too bad because she was going anyway, but uncle and tearful niece simply looked at one another for several moments. Then he sighed heavily, looking much older, and nodded his head. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay. I mean...God, I don't want you to be unhappy, Jessie. Your dad wouldn’t want..." He shook his head again and looked at the ground for several moments before turning to Laura. “It’s okay.”

Jessica and Sherlock wore matching expressions of shock on their faces, as though they’d just been told Christmas was coming early but didn’t quite believe it. On impulse, John pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. Then Jessica’s face split into a grin and she hugged her uncle tightly round the neck. There were tears in the older man’s eyes, but he was smiling as he wrapped his arms around his niece. “I love you, Jessie-cat,” he said tightly, pressing a kiss to her hair before letting her go. “Maybe you can come for Christmas?” That was directed at Sherlock and John.

“Of course,” said Sherlock, always happy to avoid his own family during the holiday season. “Yes, of _course_. I-I...” He floundered helplessly with a hand tangled in his hair, lost for words for the first time John had seen, again, since Moriarty and the swimming pool.

Jessica’s uncle smiled sadly at him as he stood up. Jessica then made a mad leap into Sherlock’s arms, locking her legs around his waist as though she would never let go. Sherlock looked just as willing to release the girl, crushing his eyes closed and hiding his face in her curls. John took two long steps forward - ignoring Laura’s talk of paperwork that still needed to be done and at least a week-long process before she could move in - and closed Sherlock and Jessica into his arms.


	11. Epilogue

“So, do I call you Daddy now?” Jessica had asked on her first official night in 221B Baker Street after Sherlock and John tucked her in. When they’d arrived at home from the meeting it was to find that cleaners had been through, and that Sherlock and John’s things had moved back to his old room, while what had once been their room was converted into one fit for a child as mature and precocious as Jessica. In the corner was tucked the cabinet from her old bedroom, the one painted like the TARDIS.

Smoothing wrinkles out of the orange blanket, Sherlock suddenly became very stern. “You call us whatever you want to, Jessica,” he said. “You can call me Daddy, or Sherlock, or Mister Holmes, or Mister Holes, or Mister Homes, or whatever you’d like, as long as you keep _your_ Daddy right here.” Where any other adult would have pointed to her heart, Sherlock placed his hand over the memory center of Jessica’s brain. “You remember how he loved you, and _Doctor Who_ , and BaCoN, and pink trainers, and then you call us whatever feels good.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well.”

John did the same on the other side of the bed, brushing her hair back. “Goodnight, Jess. We’re right downstairs if you need us, and if you need another blanket they’re in the closet. I’ve also, uh, put a cup of water right here in case you get thirsty. Oh, and there’s a night-light over there if you don’t like the dark, shall I turn it -?”

“John,” Sherlock said softly, and John smiled, embarrassed. They both got up from the bed and moved as one to the door.

“Goodnight,” she called after them just before they turned out the light, and a million tiny dots of glow-in-the-dark paint that hadn’t been visible before bloomed to light. “Whoa, cool!”

They smiled up at the ceiling, grateful for the week they’d had to prepare (Sherlock now knew much more about the solar system), and closed the door until it was only open an inch.

Jessica’s first day of school was another week later, and Sherlock couldn’t seem to help prowling around the classroom and telling the teacher, “She’s bright, and gets bored easily with mundane work, so make sure she has something engaging. But nothing too hard for her! She’s not einstein, even with the potential she has. And make sure the other children don’t pick on her, she had problems with that at her old school, but don’t baby her either, she’s a big girl, she knows how to take care of herself. However don’t let anything be resolved through violence, and-”

“Sherlock,” John said softly, and Sherlock cut himself off, embarrassed. They hugged Jessica goodbye and let her go.

Two months later, just before Christmas, it was Careers Day at the school, and after talking about it Sherlock and John decided they would both go, and Jessica could could choose if she wanted to talk about doctors or Very Important Scientists and Detectives.

And they were running late.

“I _told_ you not to go running after the gunman, Sherlock!” John snapped in the back of the cab. “So what did you do? _You bloody ran after him! _You’re lucky you only got your nose bloodied and not shot off!”__

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes but looked just as frantic as John felt. “Yes, yes, I was an idiot, now - _no, take a left, I said! A left, you imbecile!_ ”_

They downright leaped out of the cab as it pulled up to the school and sprinted through the corridors in search of Jessica’s classroom. By the time they got there, all of the parents had taken their children home and Jessica was sitting at the teacher’s desk eating a biscuit.

“I have the best family in the whole world,” she said matter-of-factly to Mr. Helde, of whom she was reportedly very fond. “I had one daddy who got me my trainers and painted my cabinet like the TARDIS and taught me how to climb a tree, and now he’s in heaven looking down on me every single day no matter what. And because my daddy was so nice, God really liked my daddy, so He used the TARDIS to go back in time and make sure that my two _new_ daddies were born. They found me and took me home and then they adopted me. So now I’ve had _three_ daddies, and they’re all really cool. Sherlock is a scientist and a detective, and he catches baddies and does experiments and makes fish fingers and custard sometimes. John is a doctor, and he makes people better and does funny voices at the supper table and lets me ride on his shoulders because he says it makes him feel taller. We go on adventures and when they have a super important case to go on - they solve mysteries - I get to go to Nanny Hudson’s flat, or sometimes to Uncle Mycroft’s house, and it’s really big!”

“It sounds like you have an extraordinary family, Jessica,” smiled the portly older man. His eyes flickered up to the door and caught on Sherlock and John. “Come on in, you two, I was just having the most enlightening conversation with your daughter. She’s remarkably bright.” He was beaming behind his gray beard, completely enamored with the charming girl.

Jessica spun around and grinned at them. John and Sherlock dropped breathlessly into chairs on either side of her, red-faced with exertion and shame. “We’re so sorry we didn’t make it in time, Jessie,” John apologized. “We were - there was a - erm.” He cut off, scratching his face, and smiled apologetically at the teacher.

“We helped DI Lestrade catch another baddie,” Sherlock supplemented from his seat, rubbing sweat from his eyes. “Look, he punched me right in the nose, see?”

Smiling up at him, Jessica replied, “It’s okay, Daddy. Can we go home now?”

Sherlock blinked, taken aback. His face flushed, and his mouth worked for a moment before he actually could form words. “O-of course. Thank you for looking after her, Mr. Helde.”

“It was a pleasure,” the teacher insisted, leaning across his desk to shake their hands before they departed.

Walking down the pavement toward 221B, Jessica sandwiched herself between Sherlock and John and took their hands. “Papa, can we watch Wall-E after dinner tonight?” she asked, looking up at John.

Now it was the doctor’s turn to blink. He was not quite as subtle as his husband as he beamed back at her with a strange shine in his eyes. “Of course we can, love. As long as you finish your coursework first.”

“Oh, I did it already. It was really _dull_.”

“Of course it was,” John sighed.

He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, silently asking _and where did she learn that word from, Daddy?_ but the taller man just grinned and led his family home.


End file.
